


Star In An Exorbitantly Priced Car

by twinkfloyd



Category: Pink Floyd (Band), The Police (Band)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:22:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21960877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twinkfloyd/pseuds/twinkfloyd
Summary: What IS it about drummers needing to go fast and loud as possible all the time? What could they possibly be compensating for, I mean, other than being able to carry a tune.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	Star In An Exorbitantly Priced Car

**Author's Note:**

> For Soobie. 'Nick Mason,Stewart Copland (Pink Floyd,Police): Stewart goes round to check out Nicks 30million pound Ferrari 250.'
> 
> I was almost done with this when I found the video where they actually race each other. At least I was right in the part where Nick predictably trounces Stewart. NOTE: i know NOTHING about cars. I know how to DRIVE a car. this is the extent of my knowledge and i think i'm doing pretty well for myself at that.

“Can I please see it? You don’t even have to let me touch it, let alone ride it.” Stewart dogged Nick up the driveway, gravel crunching under his feet having to hustle a little faster than he was comfortable with to avoid being bowled over by the other’s long legs. 

“We are still talking about the car now are we?” he huffed, cheeks red in the cold air. 

“Unless you have a thirty million pound cock you’re dying to show off, that’s the one.”

He chuckled shaking his head at this ribbing. “People are rather fixated on a big number nowadays. Thirty million pounds, the damn thing would have its own address and postbox. You’d be able to see a willy that large from space.”

“ _Yet never ride it_. There’s only so much pleasure you can get out of simply showing off at parties.” Stewart sophically noted. 

Advancing the garage it was clear where Nick’s rockstar millions had went, able to comfortably retire any time he liked, fat and content on the Floyd larder. Cars, lots of cars, lots of very very (very) expensive cars. Cars which just being allowed to come in and even look at them probably devalued them a bit. 

Stewart’s own fleeting but monumental success with their swan song record paled pathetically to _The_ Dark Side of the Moon, everyone’s did. But that was so long ago, Mason these days seemed as humble and well adjusted as any, the sane one of the group, often the only sane one. If only the same could be said for himself, there wasn’t a single fully functional brain cell between three grown ass adults the entire duration of a certain band which shall not be mentioned. Realistically Miles probably had it the whole time, locked away for safekeeping. Well, use it or lose it. 

“Well here she is, the gem in my crown,” Nick gestured like a proud father, a sporty cherry red trick flanked by dozens of other luxury specimens. Evidently the other Ferraris proudly displayed were merely the ugly stepchildren looking onwards as he ran a clothed hand along its side. 

In a museum like this Stewart held his breath, feeling ungainly, like a bull in a china shop, tiptoeing around the automobiles as they’d made their progress through the garage. Sure he let his friends play with his own collections as they saw fit but it was a little different when it was a twenty buck trombone from a yardsale. His usual bravado was absent, restraining himself, until Nick noticed and gave him a (friendly) slap, like a large dog, “You can relax already, you’re not going to break anything if that’s what you’re worried about, I didn’t invite Keith Moon to go driving with me.”

“Go driving?” Stewart asked his brows raising over the edge of his thick rimmed glasses. 

“...Oh, of course! I was actually going to ask when you were coming over if you wanted to go racing,” he tossed a pair of keys to him. 

“Go _racing_???” He caught them in both hands, eyes wide, having just expected a tour around the grounds to have Mason's oversized hotwheels collection flaunted to him, talk about it some more over drinks, and leave in his squatty rental, “Oh gee really wow? I mean, sure… that sounds cool I guess.” 

Climbing in he let himself adjust to the interior, taking it in, fingers curling around the wheel. His excitement was unmistakable on his face, Nick watching as this hot headed young man was about to take his princess out for a spin. Stewart glanced back at him, wide smile splitting his long face, “I’ve never raced before, well not like this, you going to trounce me?” 

Nick waved him away, “Oh heavens, probably. I still compete now and then, I’m an aficionado dear not some stodgy old collector who lets his things gather dust. It’s a pastime not an investment, I’ve made my millions, it’s time I enjoy it.”

“Eh, I blew mine,” he made a raspberry, “At my worst and most obnoxiously opulent I had a stable fulla horses. Twelve a them.”

“ _Twelve_? And here you are judging me for my cars?” Nick puffed, swatting at him.

“HEY. What Stewart has, is twelve horses, what he does Not have, is a Problem!” he jumped out of his seat and swatted back like a game of ping pong, “Y’know If we were on _horseback_ I’d be the one handin’ your ass to you on a silver platter…. Obviously I don’t ride as much as I used to, but not _once_ has Lord Sumner beaten me. Sure this model’s got more horsepower than I’m familiar with _but_ , I might be a more worthy adversary than you bargained for Nicky.”

“I do hope for your sake you’re right.” Nick advised.

Stewart revved the engine, roaring exactly the way a horse didn’t. It’s power energized him, excited as a kid in a candy store with the tempered confidence of an athlete. The track spread out before them like a river of asphalt snaking across the meadows, uninterrupted by another car, even another person, unlike the congestion of the city that made driving an irksome chore. 

Nick began to join in, usually not one for mindless noisemaking, but you couldn’t deny the other’s energy wasn’t infectious. As he raised his hand and began to count down the signal to start, Stewart in a panic jerkily rolled down the windows, motioning and yelling to Nick. 

“Wait wait! WAIT! Just OK one last time, you’re _absolutely sure_ you want _me_ to drive _this_?” Nick sighed, wondering when they’d actually ever start. As Stewart launched into another story he sat himself down for something that could probably wait for tea or literally anywhere else. “I never told you about the time my daddy was assigned with investigating The Dead Sea Scrolls- the real Dead Sea Scrolls! and took em outside to get a better look when there then was all the sudden this gust of wind and itbrokeintoamilionpiecesandwasneverseenagain.” 

“I- wait what!? Is that true???” Nick did a double take. 

“Well… I’ll never know for sure, but it sounds like him.”

“Is this supposed to be a threat or an anecdote, you’re not trying to convince me to never let you anywhere near my garage again because I can do that if that’s what you really want.”

“No! No, I’ll behave… To the best of my abilities.”

“Good man. I won’t,” and without another word Mason took off in a heat, leaving Stewart, still bumblingly gathering his druthers in the proverbial dust.

“ _Mother_ Fucker!” he shook his head eyes wide, and began the chase skittering after. 

Nick had a bit of granny in him, driving maybe a little more cautious than his counterpart who struggled to refrain from tearing and whipping across the pavement, vehicle becoming an extension of impulse. Still, he knew the road and his car well, handily outpacing what was still a very fast car behind him. Glancing in the mirror, he minded the gap that began to close between them.

“ **BEEP BEEP BITCH GET OUT THE WAY!!! I’M GONNA KICK YOUR ASSSS!** ” 

And yet he was still behind him. Cutting a tidy turn, Nick picked up speed again, weaving along the curves of the road, tires biting the edge of the gravel. As you got into the rhythm, the movement became natural, not struggling to wrestle control from the machine but guiding it. Driven along by feeling, friction and momentum to ground you and feed the fire burning through your own engine. It was so intense, it was just like that Rush song, fuck what was it called, Raspberry Beret. Especially the part where they were racing cars.

The playing field leveled out before them under a stretch of pale grey skies. A long clean shot, opportunity for a show of force unhindered by mastery or finesse. Stewart seized the moment and floored it, charging down the track with a shout, pulling ahead, for just a second, and then it was gone, back to dogging tails. Where the fuck was the horn on this goddamn thing??? He smacked the wheel watching for a chance to sneak back in, thwarted by needle point turns and harrowing climbs. As the finish line drew into sight, he leapt for it, you couldn’t help speeding up at the end. Victory seemed so close, just a little closer, closer and- Nick swerved past, giving a cheeky wave as he sped off down another twisting pattern. He’d already lost, this was clear by now, it was no contest. 

“I’m still the faster drummer.” Stewart kicked the gravel as if he’d let him win.

Nick raised a finger admonishingly, “Now we both know faster isn’t necessarily better-” 

“Ah so you admit it without contest, fair, I’ll accept this honor regardless. Thank you thank you.” he made a series of sweeping bows to an imaginary audience, Nick continued walking had his fill of games for today. 

“You’re too much.” 

“And you’re too kind, really.”

“I’ll have to make a note to be nastier next time.”

“Hah! Next time, I’ll be the winner.”

“Oh no, next time I won’t go so easy on you.”

Stewart froze blustering red cheeked, “Easy? Go _easy_ on me!???”

“Well I didn’t want to hurt your feelings too badly. Now hurry up boy, you’re dawdling,” Nick snickered and closed the garage door with a resounding clang behind him.


End file.
